


Delicious Agony

by englandwouldfalljohn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Blow Jobs, Bottom Draco, Broom Smut, Broomhandling, Creative usage of a magical broom handle, Drarry, Frottage, Harry is a Seeker, Leaky Cauldron, Legilimency, Lubricus Digitalis, M/M, Masturbation Interruptus, Masturbation with a Nimbus, My First Work in This Fandom, POV Draco Malfoy, POV First Person, Pining, Pining Draco Malfoy, Porn With Plot, Quidditch Innuendo, Requited Unrequited Love, Self-Deprecating Draco, Sexual Fantasy, Slightly Predatory Harry, Smut, Submissive Draco Malfoy, Top Harry Potter, Wandless Magic, did I mention smut?, in every sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 12:24:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12432795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/pseuds/englandwouldfalljohn
Summary: "We both know what the problem is." Draco did know; it's a problem he's been avoiding since his first year at Hogwarts. And now, three years on from the end of The War, he's sitting in his hired room at the Leaky Cauldron armed with nothing but his frustration and a favorite fantasy to keep him company. Until...





	Delicious Agony

“No,” she holds up one hand as the other closes the door behind her, “no more excuses. I can’t do this anymore. And you can’t _do it_ at all. It was fun while it lasted, but let’s not kid ourselves here. We both know what the problem is. Just fucking deal with it already.”

I can hear her just outside in the corridor - that shrill, sarcastic laugh she’s had since school days. The other voice is too low and muffled to even tell whether it’s a man or a woman, but one thing is clear: it’s only Pansy who’s laughing. The paranoid anxiety I’ve worn like a python around my chest since The War constricts my ribcage. It’s unlikely that she’s talking about, laughing at, exposing what just failed to happen, yet I can hardly breathe. And knowing how cruel she can be when the mood takes her, it’s not altogether impossible...

Sharp elbows dig into my thighs as I force them to bear the weight of my denial. Why do I have to be so fucking skinny. I kill myself trying to bulk up - to gain muscle, tone, anything that might hide what I really look like. Because what I really look like is exactly what I am. What I’ve tried for years not to be. What apparently even she knows to be the truth about me.

It’s probably why I called her. Well, that, and the fact that I can’t call who it is I want to call in moments like these. Moments when, despite myself, all I can think about is...

My eyes run over the broomstick standing against the wall to my left, handle wrinkling the corner of the dingy taupe curtains keeping out the bright light of the late July afternoon. Though the humiliation of my body’s refusal to cooperate is fresh in my mind, I can already feel the old hidden desire brewing, bubbling thick and slow inside me like a vat of Polyjuice, waiting for me to add that last ingredient, that touch of the person I want to be.

I run my fist loosely up the deep, rich wood of the broom handle. _The Nimbus Excalibur._ I should get up and lock the door, but the place is deserted - the Leaky Cauldron won’t have a decent amount of business for a few weeks yet - and anyway, if I open my eyes now, I’ll lose my grip on the fantasy. It’s the one that made me call her, the one I’ve had for ages. I shouldn’t give in, but I’m already pulling the broom handle close between my legs, imagining him there watching me. Imagining that he doesn’t see before him what I see in the mirror. Or rather, that he sees it and takes a step closer.

I lie back slowly, feeling foolish but also desperate. I run one hand self-consciously down the middle of my chest, letting a small moan escape as I pretend they’re his fingers trailing across my too-thin torso, over my jutting hipbone, to lightly stroke the deep emerald cotton stretching over the growing erection I was unable to coax myself into half an hour ago. Taking a deep breath, I wonder whether I want to go down this road. As if I haven’t been inching along in this direction all along. As if I haven’t been hiding from my fantasies about him for a decade. _Oh, sod it…_

I press the broom handle down gently against my own not-inconsiderable (if I say so myself) length, the strangeness of the act only registering momentarily as I find the angle to slot it against myself, wrapping my hand in order to brush the clothed head of my rapidly filling cock, increasing the pace and pressure with every slide until I’m panting slightly. I can see him, feel him, hovering above me, that beautiful smile distracting as he braces himself on the bed, ready to drive me over the edge with only his delicious, throbbing--

“Oooh fuck, Potter!”

“WHAT?!”

I freeze as a voice I did not imagine interrupts my privacy.

“Who’s there?” I shout, annoyed that I can't remember where I put my wand.

“Draco…”

He slips into my room as if invited and I'm grateful I never fully undressed.

“What the fuck… Closethefuckingdoor!”

He backs into the ancient wood, slamming it closed with a heavy thud.

“Not with you inside! What the hell are you doing?!”

“Why did you say my name?”

“I didn’t--”

“You did. You were obviously touching your… wait.” He notices the broomstick held tightly in my grip and I feel my obnoxiously pale skin turning red.

“It’s none of your damn business what I was or wasn’t doing, Potter. Besides, aren’t you a little old to be listening at doors?”

“Why waste a perfected skill?” He still has that stupid smirk. “So really,” he continues, crossing his surprisingly well-defined arms across his chest casually, as if this isn’t the most uncomfortable situation in the world, “Why did you say my name?”

“You’re a prat.” I try to sound bored, but only manage defensive. I’m slipping. I’m also rallying all of my willpower to avoid staring at those damn biceps.

“Ah!” His eyebrows rise under that disheveled mess of hair that I swear has gotten longer in the past few minutes. “Is that it, then?”

“Is what ‘it’?” Pansy was bad enough; why can't I just have a sad, lonely wank and get on with my life like a normal person...

Instead of answering me, Harry slowly unfolds his arms and tucks his hands behind his lower back, forcing his hips forward slightly. His jeans are almost as tight as that stupid short-sleeved muggle jersey he's wearing, and it's more distracting than I can bear at the moment.

“Right. I'll take that look as a yes.”

“A yes to what?” For fucks sake, Potter, I'm sitting here in my bloody Slytherin alum pants, give a guy a break already!

“I always suspected you played for the other team. Just didn't think you'd be a Keeper.”

“How the fuck would you know?”

“Because, you self-centered pain the arse, I play for the same side. Although,” he crosses the small space in a few purposeful strides, “I'm definitely still Seeker.”

He stands almost between my legs as I sit, annoyingly still half-aroused, clutching this damn bit of mahogany like a battlestaff. This scene has played out in my treacherous mind too many times, and I blink hard, for the first time willing it not to be real. Then, far too slowly for the number two ranked student I used to be, it dawns on me.

“Pansy.”

“Pansy,” he confirms.

“It was you in the corridor. _That_ _bitch_. What did she say?” It’s a demand, and I find it accompanied by a return of the desire to punch that expression right off Potter’s mouth. It had confused me once, the twisted pleasure I’d feel at imagining my fist making contact, drawing blood, then chasing those bruised lips with my own. While I find I understand it rather clearly now, the push-and-pull is no less appealing, and I can already feel the heat pooling low in my abdomen as the idea circles the periphery of my thoughts.

“Nothing I hadn’t assumed, like I said. Except a hint about where your… affections?... might lie.”

His eyes drop to where the thin material of my pants has begun to tent, and my spine reflexively curves inward as I realize the figure I cut. My thin, artless frame, awkwardly freckled chest, defensive, terrified eyes. No… no, this was not what I’d envisioned.

“Shit,” I spit out, startled. His feet haven’t moved, but somehow he seems closer. “W-What the fuck are you--”

“There is something I don’t know.”

I raise a questioning eyebrow, aiming to look bored and mildly irritated as a cover for the furious pounding behind my ribcage that I suspect he could actually see if he paid attention.

“I’ve… well I’ve been around the pitch a few times. And as much as I’ve enjoyed the pick up games, I’d really prefer to sign with a team. It took me far too long to realize the game I wanted to be playing, and even longer to accept who I’d always wanted to play with. So, yeah. I need to know… are you offering a scrimmage, or a contract?”

His eyes have been burning into mine, and to my utter mortification, I can feel my chest heaving in time to his words. Worse than that...

“I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

He huffed out a laugh that should have been mocking or disdainful, but instead sounded almost tender, before he sank toward me, forcing my lower back into the mattress, left hand coming to rest beside the elbow now bracing my body. His eyes don’t leave mine for a moment, yet somehow I know that he’s taking in every inch of me as his voice drops to just above a whisper.

“Are you just offering a ride, Malfoy…” the tips of his fingers play at the end of the polished handle, “or are you offering the broom?” His fingers slide silently down it’s length, pressing it ever so slightly between my legs and forcing a choked gasp to escape from my throat. He leans in further, his legs between mine, the broom between us, and his hand… fucking hell, his hand between the broom and _him._ I feel his breath against the side of my face as the timbre in his voice changes to something I’ve only heard in dreams that I’ve never admitted to having. “I’ve been waiting 10 years to take you down, so I’m warning you. Either you say stop and I walk away--” I think I shake my head, though I’m not sure I’ve actually moved a muscle “--or you’re mine.”

Something flashes in his eyes then, something kind and warm, something I’d forgotten the look of years ago. He doesn’t speak, but I can hear him: _You’d be mine, Draco. All of you._ I find I cannot answer, cannot even move. Yet, his eyes are sharp now, black pools soaking in the dim light of the curtained room. He knows.

And fuck, it’s not the only thing he knows. The arm supporting my weight is knocked aside, and I crash onto my back with a faint grunt that turns to a stilted moan as his teeth lock onto my neck, palm grinding the broomstick hard against my immediately pulsing cock. I can only spare a moment of self-consciousness for the rippling bones beneath his left hand because he’s now twisting my nipple almost sadistically, trailing aubergine calling cards from my jaw to my clavicle, pumping that thick wooden handle in time to his sudden and intense rhythm. I can feel him over me, on me, taking over my whole--

“Ahhh Potterrrr ooooh ffffuuuccccckkkk…” I clench my teeth against the onslaught of his mouth, hot and steamy, sucking in the tip of my twitching cock to lave a hard hungry tongue across the precome soaked cotton practically stretched to breaking. The next minute I’m free, bobbing twice from the force with which he strips my pants off before I sink so quickly down his throat that the visual makes me throw my head back in disbelief. His cheeks hollow as he drinks me in, pulling his lips up my length s l o w l y, rolling his tongue over the slit like he hasn’t eaten in days, and growling something that feels suspiciously like a wandless spell.

A strong hand pushes against the back of my thigh and I obey without hesitation, lifting both heels onto the bed, spread wide for no more than a second or two before a perfectly slick warm finger begins circling, pushing, circling, pushing, and I find a shoulder and squeeze what I hope feels like permission, but what I know is a plea. I fight to keep my eyes closed against the possibility that this isn’t happening, against the fear that he is somehow taunting me, building me up just to break me, as I, out of pathetic lovelorn fear, would likely have done to him had this chance presented itself during our younger years.

Then, in an instant, it’s all forgotten as he breaches my body. Harry Potter, Harry _fucking_ Potter, is twisting, gentle yet insistent, as one knuckle, two, slideburnstretch past fortifications years in the making. With each practiced dip of his finger, he is penetrating more and more deeply a part of me that has never been reached, has never been made available. I want this, the physical indulgence I’ve always carefully avoided, and I know it is intrinsically linked to the walls around my heart -- the only possession I have left worth protecting.

He rakes the nails of one hand along the tense twitch and jump of muscles in my thigh, as the middle finger on his other bottoms out inside me, curling, pulling out, plunging in again, curl, pull, plunge, while his throat relaxes and I feel another slight hum that this time -- my head spins at the realization -- this time, is only a sign of genuine enjoyment. I feel the corners of my mouth turn up, soaking in every moment of this dream in case I’m rudely awakened, and then...

My eyes fly open and the water-marked ceiling comes into startling relief as he pushes into my body with a second wandwood-calloused digit. He is careful, yet obviously eager, and now I am absolutely certain this is not a delusion. I know I shouldn’t risk it, but I crane my neck to see his face, and I’m rewarded with stunning green eyes boring into mine. His tongue is dragging lasciviously from milky base to crimson tip, but I hear him nonetheless: _Don’t worry, Kitten. I told you; you’re mine now. All of you._

He leans into me, his tongue climbing across my concave abdomen, and I realize that he has somehow undressed, though when (and how) is beyond me. If he has a reaction to the shudders running up my spine and down my legs as he stretches me wider, preparing me for what I now know is coming, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he leaves a shimmering, unbroken trail where he licks his way over the length of my body. He moans as if he can taste my skin, my desire, my soul; as if he’s ravenous and insatiable, and I’m an endless buffet. The sweat prickles as it rises to the surface of my skin, and the air grows thick and heavy, the whole room becoming the lush, exotic landscape that is Harry Potter’s mouth.

That voice, a voice I hadn’t heard in years yet could never forget, unfairly composed but breathy… perhaps even needy. “Can you take more for me?”

I nod because there is no hope of speech in this moment. Just before a third finger insinuates itself deep inside of me, he latches onto a fiercely peaked nipple, and before I can stop myself, I cry out -- a whimper that sounds deafening in the near-vacuum of my mind. Teeth are scraping and fingers are pulsing and suddenly my hips are being lifted by a firm pillow forming beneath them, and I cannot hope to separate the disparate sensations, though I cannot imagine why I would ever want to, except that...

Something is shifting now. Weight is lifting... no, wait… lowering, warm against my chest, my hips. A deep inhale to restore some semblance of equilibrium brings Holly, laundry soap, sweat. His soft skin, hard body press me down into the worn mattress without quite making contact, and then I gasp as he pulls out completely, leaving a deeper void than the one in which he found me. I feel him crawl higher up my longer body until he slides, smoothly, barely grazing his thick, hot, fully-charged cock against mine, once, twice, and I shiver. Three, four times, and my thighs begin to shake, my hands twisting into the grey cotton beneath me.

“Please,” I whisper. I hate myself for it, but hell -- ten years. Ten years of want, of denial, of twisted desire and forbidden attraction, and now I can’t wait, not one more minute. “Please.”

He grinds down, hard and fast, his hips rolling rolling rolling into me, and as I feel his arms shaking it occurs to me that maybe it hasn’t only been me. All this time, maybe he also--

“Whoa, fuck,” I swallow the barely audible words as my eyes fly open again to meet his, this time staring down at me. His hands, somehow rough, marked from the war, frame either side of my body as he eases the welcome assault ever so slightly, watching me search for anything that could explain the… “fuuuuck.” My breathing quickens and he smirks. “Potter--?” my inquiry is silenced by the punishing force of pink lips crushing against mine, biting, licking, moaning against my unspoken question.

The pace of his thrusting increases again, the truly unexpected length of him slotting alongside my own positively aching cock faster faster harder faster, as he magics my Nimbus into the realm of what I’d only fantasized about before this. Also wandlessly slick, pressing slowly, steadily, gaining entrance inch by tantalizing inch. I watch Potter’s eyes flick down, between our bodies, past the precome pooling on my stomach, to where he is carefully, wordlessly, sinking my broom into the place his own possessive fingers had so recently been. He appears mesmerized, stricken by the unadulterated filth of this indulgence, and his pace falters as he wills the Nimbus to adjust its angle until...

“Potter! POTTER! Sweet holy Merlin’s… fuck! FUCKYES! Yes, yes, yes…” My head is thrashing and I can feel tears stinging behind my eyes at the sheer intensity of a pleasure which borders on pain in the sweetest possible way. His body snaps back into a rhythm at my outcry, his teeth clamping down again on my nipple and I scream, I _fucking scream_ his name as I come. Long, desperate cries to match the thick white evidence being wracked from my body, and I hear him choking on his own breath, which is refusing to be released as he paints my torso with his own extended orgasm.

I can only assume I blacked out, because there he is, Harry, standing at the foot of the bed, denim buttoned and jersey being yanked back over his head. And here I am, lying on display, and I know I must look absolutely--

“Stop.” He kisses me, a sweet, strong press of bruised lips. “You’re beautiful, you annoying git. Always have been.” He throws my quite unwearable-at-the-moment pants at my head, which, thankfully, I manage to catch before looking like a complete idiot. I pull them on, cringing slightly, and he turns toward the door in an obvious attempt at allowing me some dignity. It’s much appreciated when I realize that “graceful” is the last word I’d use to describe myself attempting to stand.

Clenching my teeth against the delicious agony, I follow him to the door and lean against the frame as he takes a few steps toward a room down the hall. My thoughts must show on my face, as he explains, “I come every year. Tradition. Mostly because I don’t know what else to do with myself.”

I tilt my head toward my own room by way of reply, and he continues.

“Need a shower. Reckon you could use one, too.”

So that’s it then. Wash it off. Right. Don’t know what else I’d expected, really. It’s not as though…

“See you at dinner then? Half seven work?”

I blinked for a moment before speaking. “I… yeah. Half seven.” What’s happening to you, Draco?

“Don’t look so surprised. I meant what I said. _Kitten._ ” And then Harry Potter, Harry _fucking_ Potter, winks.


End file.
